


Revenge Is A Dish Best Served Cold

by KoreArabin



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Bombs, Chains, Collars, Cruelty, Electricity, Explicit Language, Humiliation, Imprisonment, Kidnapping, Punishment, Sadism, Violence, Watersports
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-28
Updated: 2013-02-04
Packaged: 2017-11-13 02:11:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/498309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KoreArabin/pseuds/KoreArabin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The confrontation at the pool changed John Watson irrevocably.  Now he wants payback.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Effrontery

**Author's Note:**

> I think I need to add something of a warning. This is far darker than the dirteh BDSM smut I normally write. There is true non-consent and torture in this story, so if you're expecting a smutty MorMor romp, please be warned.

"So if you have what you say you have, I'll make you rich. If not, I'll make you into shoes."

That was the last thing John had seen of him, the man who had wrapped him up in semtex, the man who had threatened to stop his heart, to snuff out his existence in an instant, by shooting him and Sherlock dead or blowing them both to kingdom come.

He's dreamed about those tense moments beside the pool many times, waking doused in sweat, sheets twisted into ropes, heart pounding and pulse racing. But in the midst of all of the angst, the thing he finds hardest to deal with, the memory that he tries to outrun by contorting it with fantastic twisting skeins of evasion, subterfuge and counter-evasion, is the one where he wakes from the dreams with a cock hard enough to cut diamond.

He held the Irish madman against him in the heat of the moment, being terribly heroic and brave and _basically_ all round good egg Captain John Watson. Doing his duty for Queen, country and, well, _friend_ \- Sherlock is a friend, he supposes, although whether he'd normally have offered in the heat of the moment to die for a mate of a few weeks acquaintance is moot.

So. He had held the little Irish madman against him, the utter bastard who had treated him as being as inconsequential a speck of humanity as any of the other poor sods he'd made into bomb strappees, and locked his arm around his neck, grabbed his arm and bent it up behind him, and told Sherlock to run. 

He'd expected to feel anger. He'd expected to feel a rush of adrenaline as his natural fight or flight reflexes kicked in. Hell, he knew how much he was enjoying the excitement of action again, running around with Sherlock, after the months of inaction and depression - he'd known he'd be flying on it, in the midst of everything at the pool. What he had most definitely _not_ expected was to have his sodding prick prodding rather fucking _insistently_ at the seat of Moriarty's immaculate Westwood suit trousers.

And oh, the humiliation when the little bastard had twisted around to grab it, knowing all too mortifyingly well _exactly_ how the good doctor was responding to the situation. To him.

"You've rather shown your hand there, Dr. Watson. Gotcha!"

No.

-O-

Before the pool, John hadn't seen his captors. He'd been grabbed off of the street embarrassingly easily, injected in his thigh with something that had knocked him out immediately and had then come around to find himself blindfolded and cuffed to a chair. Other than a few muffled snatches of conversation, he had also heard nothing until he'd been manhandled into the bomb jacket and duffle coat, wired up with the ear piece and told to wait in the changing cubicle.

It had taken some moments after Sherlock and Moriarty had started talking for John to accept that "Jim from IT" _was_ Moriarty the murdering bastard. He'd rather liked Jim; the chap seemed somewhat lost and vulnerable, and had looked so deflated when Sherlock had treated him with utter disdain - even going so far as to humiliate him by announcing to the room at large that the poor guy was gay. 

Sherlock could be such a twat at times, either unbelievably insensitive, or just apparently uncaring. _Moriarty_ appeared to be cut from the same mould, albeit a far more fucking extreme example. 

John, standing there in his bombs and parka, caught in what could variously described as anything from a resumption of hostilities, a totally _platonic_ battle of wits (yeah, _right_ ), a display of courtship ( _yeah, right_ ), or just a nice little chat between a madman and a sociopath, had suddenly felt very, very alone.

-O-

John is not a bad man. On the great scale of life, he'll be tipping the balance pretty damned conclusively on the "good" side. In team humanity, he's playing solidly for the first eleven. But being exposed to the darkest face of glamourous, flitatious, so fucking _sexy_ , evil insanity he's ever encountered, when his _friend_ , for whom he's apparently offering to lay down his life, appears to be lapping up that evil fucking bastard's attentions, is enough to make even the staunchest, brightest member of Angels RFC turn the dimmer switch down a touch.


	2. The Unwrapping Of Packages

"Ah, John, this is a rather unexpected visit. To what do I owe the pleasure?" Mycroft waves him to the deep leather armchairs opposite him in the quiet, congenial reading room at his club. "Tea? Or something stronger? You seem - preoccupied." He tilts his head slightly, John certain that the sharp blue eyes are taking absolutely everything in without him needing to say a word, just like his younger brother.

"Tea will be fine, thanks."

Mycroft nods to the attendant, and a tray arrives almost immediately. "Milk or lemon?"

"Milk, thanks."

"Help yourself to sugar." Mycroft smiles. "And the biscuits are really very good."

Taking a quick sip of his tea, John cannot hold back any longer. "I need your help."

"Oh? Well, this is, again, rather unexpected. As I recall, on the one occasion I asked you for assistance vis-à-vis my irksome younger brother, you rejected my request rather brusquely." Mycroft pauses, steepling his fingertips and resting them against his chin. "But I confess that I am intrigued. With what do you require my help?"

-O-

The days have passed so slowly since their meeting, and yet John can only vaguely recall them as a series of blurred images. Work at the surgery; accompanying Sherlock to a new crime scene, at Lestrade's request; cooking supper and watching TV, although he'd be hard-pressed to tell anyone what he'd eaten or watched or when he ate or watched it. "On autopilot" seems to be the only way to describe how he's functioned, and he's just bloody thankful that he hasn't managed to top any of his patients during their consultations at the surgery.

So when the text arrives - "Target acquired. Package delivered." - he feels as if he's surfacing from a drowsy sea of muted sound and blurred images to a bright and crystal clear sky. 

Sherlock's doing something unusually quiet and unexpectedly un-malodourous in the kitchen, so takes little notice when John mumbles something about popping out for a walk. He lets himself out of 221B and has only walked a few hundred yards when the sleek black saloon slides quietly alongside him.

Mycroft looks at him pensively as he slides in to the backseat beside him. "I do hope you know what you're doing, John," he says softly.

John simply stares ahead, jaw set. "Oh yes, Mycroft, I know _exactly_ what I'm doing."

-O-

The house looks pretty ordinary - one of an innocuous terrace of late nineteenth century town houses in a quiet back road off Gower Street. John unlocks first the mortice, then the door lock, and steps inside. Mycroft had offered to accompany him, but John refused. This is something he is going to do alone.

Inside, the hallway retains the original black and white tiled floor, but the dark brown and green walls of the late Victorian and early twentieth century are now washed through with a ubiquitous muted off-white. John follows the hallway to a sudden right turn and there, set into the wall below the staircase, is a thick metal security door. John's been given a pass for the electronic lock, and the door clicks open quietly. It leads to a brightly lit staircase descending down below the house.

At the bottom, John is somewhat taken aback to find that light-walled townhouse gives way to steel grey brushed metal, which gleams dully under the harsh fluorescent lighting. In front, and to each side of him, are further security doors, all fitted with observation hatches at roughly eye level. Two are locked closed, but the third, the one directly in front of him, is open.

Delaying gratification, John explores the room to the left first. It looks like a generic mid-class hotel room; kingsize bed, tv, mini-bar, en suite bath/shower room. Lots of cupboard and drawer space, even a mini-kitchenette area tucked away beside the en suite, boasting a microwave oven and a tiny fridge-freezer.

The room opposite is something of a surprise after the hotel room. If John had ever been persuaded to take part in an "Imagine A Torture Room!" tv game show, he'd have pretty much come up with this. A very medical-looking examination table, with straps and restraint points pretty much covering the bloody thing, as well as gynaecological stirrups, again with restraints. 

A huge array of specula, medical/dental gags, eye-wateringly large probes and sounds, as well as tape, bandages, scissors, pretty much every medical accoutrement John could imagine (even a blood pressure monitor?) is laid out somewhere in the room. He tries not to even look at the forceps, clamps, retractors, scalpels, lancets, drill bits, rasps, trocars, suction tips, tubing, surgical staplers, drills, and calipers on the metal shelf beside the autoclave.

This surely _is_ a place where professionals work? John doesn't want to think about what a lay as versus medical person could do with the array of equipment in that room. Then again, he _really_ doesn't want to think about what a medically trained person could do, either. Oh, Mycroft. Were you right? Perhaps this is a lose/lose for me, all the way around.

-O-

John walks quietly to the hatch and looks through into the room beyond. It's bare, walls and floor the same dull metal, but brightly lit. At the foot of the wall opposite is a slumped figure, dressed only in black trousers and a white shirt, shoeless, sockless and jacketless, his (because it's clearly a he) arms cuffed behind his back, a chain running from the cuffs down to similar ones around his ankles. His face is turned to the wall, but John would recognise that jet black, immaculately cut, hair anywhere. Its image is burned into his memory from the few minutes he held its owner pinned against his body.

Moriarty doesn't move as John enters the room, not even when he's standing over him, so John decides to force the issue, kicking him square in the lower back. Moriarty rolls over, huffing in annoyance, his face lighting up when he recognises John.

"Johnny boy! How lovely to see you! Is your sexy friend with you?"

"No. You'll have to make do with me."

"Oh? He lets his pet out on frolics of his own, does he? That seems rather careless, but then, I suppose with a pet as loyal and devoted as yourself he knows you'll always find your way home. Eventually."

"I'm no-one's _pet_ , Mr Moriarty, and anyone who thinks so knows nothing about me or about Sherlock Holmes."

"Well, I'm all for getting to know you. I do think we rather got off on the wrong foot there, didn't we? At the pool? No time for _proper introductions_."

John stares at the man on the floor. "You think strapping bombs to people creates a conducive atmosphere for "introductions", do you? I'd call you pretty bloody lacking in basic social skills, _Jim_ , if I didn't already know that you were just fucking psychotic."

Jim smirks up at him, and John can't help himself hitting the other man hard across the face, anything to wipe away that stupid, mocking, expression.

Jim licks at the blood pooling at the side of his mouth, his tongue clean and pink as a cat's. "You're a fine one to talk about social niceties, Doctor Watson. I'd be only too happy to apologise and shake your hand and pleased to make your acquaintance and all that but, as you can see," Jim glances down at the manacles around his ankles, "I'm a little tied up at the moment."

John stares at him, then blinks and rubs his face, suddenly tired and fed up with the verbal sparring. "That one's as old as the bloody hills. I should slap you for making shit jokes, if nothing else."

Jim coils forward, pulling himself up to his knees, his head cocked to one side, expectant and coquettish at the same time. "So is that why I'm here, Doctor Watson? You want to slap me around a bit, is that it?"

The other man is silent for some time. "I don't know what I want."

"I think you know exactly what you want, Doctor. We both know what happened at the pool. I excite you. I make you want to do dark, bad things that a good upstanding army captain, a _doctor_ , no less, like yourself shouldn't want to do to another person." Jim spreads his thighs and licks his lips slowly for effect. "The thing is, _Doctor_ , I am _exactly_ the sort of dark, naughty boy who just _loves_ having those bad, nasty things done to me."

John walks over to the kneeling man, planting himself immediately before him, his crotch virtually in Jim's face. Grasping a handful of the soft, dark hair, he pulls hard, twisting his head back and staring down into his face. Dark blue-grey eyes bore into those of jet black, Jim licking his lips again and letting his mouth remain slightly open, the tip of his tongue resting wetly against his lower lip.

In that moment, John's decision is made. There'll be no going back from this, he knows. It doesn't matter how much Jim wants it, whether he's a masochist getting his jollies and screaming for more, or simply a fucked-up little bastard who wants the shit kicked out of him. John will be hurting him for _John's_ pleasure and John's alone and, however much he tries to rationalise that in the coming days or months or years, it'll mean that part of him is marred irretrievably. No going back from this.

-O-

Still holding Jim's hair in a painful grip, he backhands the kneeling man across the face, enjoying the wet sound of flesh splitting against bone, then slaps and backhands him again and again, until one of Jim's eyes is blacking, his cheek cut and swollen and his nose and mouth running with blood.

"Like that, do you, you little bastard?"

Jim smirks up at him, his face twisted by the swelling eye, and _giggles_ , a fine spray of blood hitting the crotch of John's trousers. "Is that all you got, Johnny boy? A bit of slap and tickle and little Johnny's pathetic little prick gets all hard? I thought you'd have more balls, sweetie."

John contemplates hitting Jim again, but then decides on something more fitting. Grasping Jim's jaw, he digs his fingers hard into his cheeks, twisting his mouth open, and snarls into his face. "You need your fucking mouth washed out, you dirty little fuck."

He unbuttons his fly, freeing his cock, and takes aim. Jim, realising too late what he's about to do, tries to twist away but John has him held too strongly in his grasp. He lets loose a hot stream of piss straight into Jim's mouth, spraying his face and hair, and streaming down over his body, soaking him. Jim twists and chokes as the pungent stream continues, flooding into his throat, retching and coughing and struggling for breath, but John is merciless, continuing the shower until he is completely spent. Throwing Jim down to the floor, he shakes off the last few drops of piss on to his face and leaves him lying there, gasping in the pool of urine, slamming the cell door shut with a resounding clang.


	3. Thirst

The small, battered, naked shape chained to the wall doesn't move as he enters the cell. It doesn't, now. It knows what to expect when it receives a visit from its captor.

John is so far beyond that invisible line now, the one he crossed that very first day his prisoner came under his control. Revenge has been, and is, so very sweet and so very satisfying. John wouldn't want to go back now, even if he could. And, of course, he can't. A line like this, once breached, is a crossing of the rubicon of the most profound and definitive kind. 

He presses the charge baton below his captive's stubbled chin, forcing it to raise its head. Bottomless, black eyes, too resigned to plead, meet his of dark blue, glinting cruelly. John holds out the plastic canister, tantalisingly close to Jim's cracked, parched lips. He witholds fluids from his captive deliberately, of course, knowing that there is little else that he can use to force Jim to submit to the pain and humiliation he enjoys inflicting on him.

Even now, Jim's dry lips curl with disgust. The smell from the canister is unmistakeable; strong, pungent, and warm, with a hint of asparagus, aged for a few days so that a greasy film has formed on the surface. 

"Drink it. It's all you're getting."

John stares down dispassionately as the once arrogant, cocky, consulting criminal swallows, grimacing as he has to gulp at the tepid fluid, John tipping the canister against his lips too steeply to allow him to drink comfortably. Only when Jim has drained it of its contents does John remove it and allow him to catch his breath.

"You fucking bastard. I will get out of here, and I will kill you. When I am finished with you, you will be begging me for the release of death."

John smiles. A little drink always re-invigorates his captive. "I don't think so, do you, Jim? If anyone was going to get you out of here, they'd have done it by now, don't you think? As you are so fond of saying, you and Sherlock are pretty unique, and you can't expect mere mortals, _pets_ , like me and your henchmen, to be able to rescue you. No, Jimmy-boy, with their organ grinder gone, your monkeys haven't got a clue what to do."

"Fuck you."

"And the same to you, Jimmy-boy. With that attitude, I think it's going to be a while before you deserve to get anything else to eat or drink."

With this, John presses the charge baton against Jim's crotch, relishing the scream the shock jolts from his captive. Whilst Jim convulses helplessly on the floor, he tightens the chains linking his captive's wrists and ankles, as well as the one tethering his collar to the wall. The psychotic little bastard can enjoy not being able to change position, as well as being tortured by thirst, until he decides to visit him again. When he does, he may feed Jim, too. To date, he's been force-fed a diet of cold porridge mixed with multi-vitamin powder. 

Perhaps it's time to step it up to dog food - although - that may be somewhat palatable to someone suffering dehydration. On second thoughts, then; dry dog biscuits.


	4. Metal

The nipple piercings were a brilliant idea. For as well as using them to administer agonising shocks to Jim's pert, pink, little nipples, they act as a harness and goad of the most effective type. After pressing the charge baton a couple of times to each piercing, the ex-consulting criminal can do little more than crawl along after him as John tugs on the wire leashes attached to each nipple ring.

There is such a contrast, now, between them. John is - well - John: clad in his usual jeans and fluffy sweater, whilst Jim Moriarty is a shade of his former self. Naked, decorated from tip to toe in a magnificent technicolour blanket of vivid bruises, cuts, abrasions and burns, and filthy, begrimed with dried sweat and blood, and stinking like an animal. Wincing in pain as he follows his captor, half crawling, half dragged, to the room he has learned to dread, even more than he dreads the long days and nights left bound and tortured by thirst and hunger in his cell.

He is so weak now. He can mount only a token resistance to being strapped into the punishment frame, a rectangular metal structure, festooned with restraint points, on to which John secures him, stretched out in a painful spread-eagle. The fantastic thing about the punishment frame, from John's point of view, is the way in which his captive can be tilted horizontally face down in a spread-eagle, horizontally face up in a spread-eagle, or vertically, head up or head down or, indeed, any angle he fancies in between.

Today, Jim is horizontal, face up, his buttocks and his shoulders resting on a couple of supporting metal bars beneath him. He breathes harshly as John shows him the first implements on today's torture menu. 

Five heavy duty metal clamps, the sort of bulldog clips used to secure sheets of paper. Each is highly sprung with two sharp metal teeth. John massages Jim's nipples, squeezing and twisting at the swollen nubs. He knows that they're sore from the recent, still-not-totally-healed piercings, but that just adds to the fun. Once he's satisfied that the nipples are erect enough to take the clamps, he attaches one to each of them. Jim's howl as the metal teeth bite down hard into his over-sensitised flesh is just too adorable.

Next, he moves down, hesitating between his captive's splayed thighs. Jim's legs are spread wide enough to cause a lot of pain in his hips, but that's no concern of John's. No, the reddened testicles (reddened from Jim's last CBT session - a thick metal cuff fastened around his scrotum, below his cock but above his ball sack, fastened to a solid 10 kilo weight by a six inch long chain, Jim squatting inelegantly, screaming as John used a rattan cane on his balls) which look so wincingly-cross-your-legs-now vulnerable, are John's concern.

He savours the screams as he affixes the first clamp at roughly mid-point on Jim's ball sack. The little trickle of blood which drips down between Jim's spread arse cheeks looks rather pretty, after all. Applying a clamp to each of Jim's balls produces similar sounds, which tail off somewhat abruptly when John flicks lazily at the ends of the clamps.

Next up are the drawing pins. John has doodled a rather pretty design for the pin cushion he intends to make of Jim's arse and balls. The brightly coloured plastic heads of the pins look so pretty once he's pushed them in, eight pressed into Jim's balls, four in each testicle, the other ten decorating the rim of his arsehole.

Jim lies sweating and twitching in his restraints. John felt it prudent to gag him at one point during the proceedings; he doesn't want Jim checking out and swallowing his tongue, for goodness sake. The thick rubber bit gag prevents the ex-consulting criminal doing anything so dangerous to himself.

Before John leaves Jim to savour his temporary body modifications, he places the next implements of torture on the trolley beside Jim, ensuring that they are in clear view. A thick, weighty, rubber dildo, roughly a foot in length, flaring out to a thick, ribbed, base. A case of surgical metal sounds, a bottle of Tabasco perched on top of them. A Whitehead metal dental gag, at present only ratcheted open about halfway, with an assortment of wooden tongue depressers, dildos and rather dirty-looking butt plugs beside it.

And lastly, a thick leather garotte, crudely functional in its simplicity.

Leaving Jim twitching and trembling, John leaves him with a parting shot. "I am loving this, this little game of ours. See you later!"


End file.
